Buffalo Stance - In Defence of a Much Maligned Metropolis

Much has been and is being written about the bijou known as Buffalo. From The New York Times to, most recently, The Toronto Star, everyone seems to be jumping on the Buffalo bandwagon. And I ain’t no different. I am not only on the bandwagon, I am leading it. Buffalo is da bomb. And it’s ready to detonate. And if you ain’t with me, you be missing out.

The Magic of Michael Archibald's Miniature Manse

Ok. So I've always been obsessed with dollhouses. Don't get me wrong, I've never wanted to play with dolls - that's for girlie-girls - but I've always been intensely intrigued by the miniaturization of worlds, of architecture, of interiors. Maybe it was because we moved so much, or maybe it was because of my precocious and geeky interest in architecture and design, but I adored the thought of tiny environments that I could create and control. In elementary school I had a book on Queen Mary's Dollhouse and would pour over its images, wishing desperately that I had a manse so magnificent to manage, maintain and manipulate. And I remember spending hours in Aunt Heidi's Corner, the mecca for dollhouse enthuisiasts in St. Louis' Westport Plaza, gazing over the abundance of intricate Snooki-sized structures, their construction and their attention to detail. When I was ten years old my father surprised me with a dollhouse that he'd built for my birthday. The Taft General Store. It was awesome. Not because it engendered play with people, but because it proffered up all manner of possibilities. Goods to stock. Counters to fill. Barrels to bolster. From pint-sized packs of flour to pioneer provisions, it was perfect for the miniature maniac. And it was made even sweeter by the fact that my father had made it on the sly after a long day's work. How adorable is that? Pops was awesome that way. I loved that dollhouse, but, as all little girls do, I out grew it when the spectre of boys and clothes and parties began to take precedence. The Taft sat silent for years, undisturbed and gathering dust until, after several moves by my parents, it bid the fate of so many childhood toys and ventured to the diminutive dollhouse valhalla in the sky.

I've often thought of The Taft and, in recent months, I'd begun reflecting on dollhouses and the more mature place they could play in my world. I mean, I can't afford an actual house, so why not a play one? Especially after discovering that there's an entire miniature movement afoot. Perhaps it's nostalgia for childhood games, or perhaps it's the subprime at play, but crafty and cool folks are gravitating back to pocket-sized pied a terres in droves. And they're doing it in style, from Valley of the Dolls to Modernist masterpieces. I'd seriously started to think about manufacturing my own miniature mansion, but knowing that a certain someone would likely wreak havoc on my design endeavours, I've been dragging my feet on it. And so I was ecstatic when I went over to my friend Michael Archibald's place and espied his Kaczynski-esque cabin creation amongst his canvases. Carefully constructed of balsa wood and dollar store buys, it has everything. A shingled roof, tiny shutters and doors, sills, hinges, plank floors, a fully landscaped front lawn, a belly stove, a bed, a desk, a bookcase and, best of all, blacklight paint. Every detail has been considered and crafted. And not a single item was store bought. Windows were created from dollar store key hangs. Rafters from Ikea dishracks. Grassy knolls from spray foam and China Town astroturf. Books from folded paper and foamcore wrapped in canvas. Tiny sculptures adorning the desk carefully handsculpted and lit from within. The stove burns. The desk light illuminates. The bedspread of gauze invites. The sheers of paper conceal what is within. It is all perfect in its design. And I can't figure out if it's better in the light or in the dark. Whichever, it is pure genius in its ingeniuty, creativity and imagination. And for that I have to thank Michael. I watch television when I'm bored. And Michael creates tiny wonders. Kudos, yo. Pure kudos.

All writing and photographs copyright Pamela Westoby. All subject matter and artistic genius copyright Michael Archibald.